James Grippando - Last to die

But was silence really the only way?

To hell with it, she thought. It wasn’t her responsibility to save the others. If they stayed in Sally’s game now-after the note from Alan Sirap, after Swyteck’s warning that Sirap was Sally’s stalker, after Tatum Knight beat up Gerry Colletti, after Gerry offered to buy them all out for a quarter million dollars apiece-then whatever happened to them was their own damn fault.

Her phone rang, and she snatched it up. “Meadows,” she said.

“How’s my favorite reporter this morning?”

Her grip tightened. It was that same mechanical voice-her source. “I’m not your favorite anything, pal.”

“That’s not true. I’m a man of my word, and your two weeks of silence makes you my partner. Hard to believe it’s been almost that long since we talked last, isn’t it?”

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“Once again, I have to congratulate you. I understand you had another chance to tell the group about our partnership yesterday, and you did the right thing. You kept your big mouth shut.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I have my sources. Just like you.”

“Who?”

“Get real.”

“How do you know they’re reliable?”

“They’re reliable. The kind you’d love to have.”

She reached for a pen and notepad. “How much would I love it?”

“Enough to write this down.”

She froze. Could he see her, or did he just know her well enough to guess that she’d gone for her pad?

He said, “I’ve decided to reward you. Consider it a little bone in your direction for good behavior.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten our little understanding-be the first to die, or be the one to inherit forty-six million dollars.”

Her voice tightened. “How could I forget that?”

“Good. Because I don’t want you to think I’ve gone soft. I just want you to understand that if you do as you’re told, it’s in everyone’s best interest.”

“How do you mean?”

“Not everyone has to die.”

“No one has to die.”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said sharply. “Don’t put this on me.”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” he said, his voice rising. “Or I might change my mind.”

She reeled in her anger, taking the edge off her voice. “Change your mind about what?”

“I have a story for you.”

She fumbled again for her pad, her hand shaking as she put pen to paper. “What kind of story?”

“It’s about Tatum Knight.”

“That’s a good start.”

“Here’s what I want you to write. Tatum met with Sally Fenning two weeks before she died. She drove to a bar owned by Tatum’s brother, Theo, called Sparky’s.”

“What did they talk about?”

“She hired him to kill her.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. “She what?”

“You hard of hearing?”

“No. That’s quite a story. But I can’t write something like that without corroboration.”

“You can, and you will.”

“But I need two sources before the Tribune will print-”

“Shut up and fucking listen! I didn’t tell you to run the story. I told you to write it.”

She paused, confused. “Why write it if I can’t print it?”

“You take the story to Jack Swyteck and you threaten to publish it.”

“What’s the threat?”

“Tell him that the story is going to run on page one tomorrow-unless his client instructs Sally’s estate lawyer to strike his name from the list of beneficiaries.”

Deirdre had heard every word, but she’d written nothing on her pad. It was almost too bizarre to register. “What’s this all about?”

“Like I said, not everyone has to die. If we can get some of the other beneficiaries to drop out, that’s as good as dead, right?”

She thought for a second, recalling that Gerry Colletti had made the same point at yesterday’s meeting. “That’s right.”

“So you write that story, Deirdre. Write it good. You make Tatum Knight think he’s about to jump to the top of the list of suspects in the murder of Sally Fenning. Because if he doesn’t drop out, then it’s back to my original plan. Somebody’s gonna die.”

The line clicked. Her source was gone. Slowly, Deirdre placed the phone back in the cradle, then slumped in her chair, mentally exhausted. She wasn’t keen on the idea of extorting anyone, but threatening Tatum Knight with a phony story was certainly preferable to standing aside and waiting for her source to bump off one of her fellow beneficiaries.

She drummed her fingers on her notepad, thinking. Sally Fenning hired Tatum Knight to kill her. Write it, but don’t print it. Just the words on paper would be enough to make Tatum Knight drop out of the race for forty-six million dollars. Just the words-

No, she realized. Not just the words. The words alone had no power, or at least not power enough to intimidate two guys like Jack Swyteck and Tatum Knight.

The words had that kind of power only if they were true.

She looked across the sprawling newsroom, her gaze slowly passing over the bronze plaque on the wall in honor of the Tribune’s past winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Finally, her focus came to rest on the office door of the editor who had slapped down her proposal for an investigative piece on Sally Fenning.

Sweet mama, she wondered. What if it is true?

South Coconut Grove is a maze of quiet residential streets that cut through a tropical forest. It’s no accident that the crisscrossing courts and lanes bear names like Leafy Way, Poinciana, and Kumquat. Shade, charm, and privacy are the neighborhood selling points, each little lot surrounded by a piece of the sprawling jungle. People live there because you could be on top of the house next door and never know it.

People move away because you could be killed in your driveway and no one would see it.

Detective Rick Larsen parked his unmarked Chevy behind the line of squad cars with the swirling blue lights. He grabbed his notepad, got out, and walked around the overgrown bougainvillea and a swaying stand of bamboo that lined the street. Evenings in the Grove were like midnight in the Black Forest, even darker when skies were overcast. It had been raining since sunset, and it was hard to tell if the precipitation was still falling or if the wind was simply blowing drops off the leafy canopy overhead. Typical Grove confusion.

Larsen heard voices on the other side of the bushes. He ducked under the taut yellow police tape that was stretched across the entrance to the driveway. Pea gravel crunched beneath his feet as he entered the crime scene and asked, “What do we got?”

Cameras flashed as the investigative team photographed the area. Others were slowly canvassing the yard, searching for anything and everything. The body lay facedown in the gravel. An assistant medical examiner was kneeling over it, examining it, while speaking into her Dictaphone.

A young cop in uniform, the first to have arrived on the scene, gave Larsen the quick rundown. “White male. Fifty-something years old.”

“He live here?”

“No. Owner of the house found him when she was taking out the garbage. She called the police.”

“She know him?”

“No. Says she’s never seen him before.”

“She see anything?”

“No.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not yet.”

“Any identification on him?”

“None. He was wearing a T-shirt and exercise shorts with no pockets. From his shoes and outfit, looks like he was out walking or jogging. Except that he’s not in very good shape. Walking is more my guess, probably on a doctor’s orders to get off his ass and lower his cholesterol.”